


Savage Land

by Liralen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Feral Behavior, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Psychological Trauma, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-10
Updated: 2011-08-10
Packaged: 2017-10-22 11:24:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liralen/pseuds/Liralen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "When Samuel and Sam return, the Campbells see Dean as a threat and kidnap him, keeping him locked up like an animal without human interaction except to feed him or hurt him. By the time Sam regains his soul and finds him, Dean's mostly feral. Sam just wants his brother back."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Savage Land

He knows it's stupid. He knows it's naïve and pathetic and _stupid_ , but he doesn't care: he just wants his brother back.

"Dean," he says. "Dean, it's me. It's Sam. You aren't crazy, or dreaming, it's really me. I came back for you. I got you, you're safe now—"

Bobby barely has time to shove the tranquilizer into Dean's thigh before he's on his feet and across the room, trying to rip his brother's face off.

  


*

  


The second time Dean comes to he's in restraints: thick, well-padded leather cuffs chained to the floor of the panic room. Bobby had wanted to bind him hand and foot, maybe get a length of chain around his neck for good measure, but Sam had said no and would hear no more of it. He can still remember what it was like to be a prisoner in this place; can still see Dean as he was when they found him, trussed up in the Campbells' basement like an animal. Sam doesn't care if Dean breaks free and tears his throat out; he's not going to do that to his brother.

He doesn't say anything this time, watches just out of reach as Dean's eyes flutter and twitch. Bobby's outside the unlocked iron door with another tranq gun, in case Dean makes a break for it and Sam's too slow. Or dead.

Dean's eyes fix on him as soon as they open. Sam sees recognition in them, but nothing like comprehension. Intelligence, keen and hard as ever, but no humanity. Dean stares him down like a savage dog, waiting for an opening, waiting to be hurt, and Sam wants to kill them all over again; wants to feel their blood on his face and their bones under his boots, because the deaths he gave them were too quick and kind for what they've made of his brother.

Dean pushes himself up to sitting, making the slender lengths of chain at his wrists shift and clink. He looks down at them, studying the sturdy cuffs for a moment before trying to rip them off, ragged nails scrabbling at the leather. A high whine rises from his throat as the cuffs hold fast, a sound Sam's never heard a human being make before. Terror made audible.

"I know. I'm sorry," Sam says, unable to keep silent. Dean stops pawing at the cuffs, cocking his head at Sam. "I didn't want to, but you were—I don't want you to hurt yourself. If you can calm down, maybe I can take them off."

"Don't be a damn fool," Bobby warns, and the echo of his voice clearly spooks Dean, propels him to his feet and starts a low growl in his chest.

"Shut the hell up, Bobby, you're gonna freak him," Sam hisses back. He doesn't move his eyes an inch from Dean, on his feet now and moving cautiously forward. Sam is sickly relieved to see him upright, at least walking on two legs like a man.

"There you go. You can come closer; I'm not gonna hurt you. No one's going to hurt you." Dean's eyes narrow, upper lip curling back in something between a sneer and a snarl, and Sam can _almost_ see his brother in the expression, so close to the familiar "how fucking dumb do I look?" he pulls out for monsters that try to play him for a fool. It softens something tight and tense in Sam's chest, makes him reach a hand out, and that's a mistake.

Quick as an indrawn breath Dean is there, snapping and snarling, the forward thrust of his body jerked back only at the last second by the twin lengths of chain. It takes everything in Sam to fight his instincts and stay in place. Dean's knees hit the floor, his upper body sagging forward; shoulders thrust back and arms torqued in a way that has to be painful, pulling against his own weight, but nothing of it shows on his face.

"It's okay!" Sam shouts, panicked, unable to spare a glance to the door. "Don't come in, Bobby, we're okay. We're okay," he says again, softer, gaze unwavering on Dean's face.

Every inch of Dean is focused entirely on Sam: eyes locked, mouth open and nostrils flaring, dragging in deep lungfuls of air. Breathing in Sam's scent. Sam's stomach threatens to rebel, but slowly—slowly—Sam brings his outstretched hand closer. He moves an inch at a time, stilling every time Dean shifts or makes a sound, until finally his hand hovers close enough to Dean's face that Dean can drop his head and touch his nose to Sam's palm.

They spend a long minute like that, Dean huffing in Sam's scent and Sam hardly daring to breathe. The sudden flash of something wet across his skin surprises him, jerking his hand back an inch and startling them both before he has time to process it. Sam blinks, stuttering out a shaky laugh.

"Sorry," Sam whispers, voice badly frayed. He brings his hand back in close and Dean studies him warily for another moment before leaning in again, nosing Sam's palm and then opening his mouth to give another slow, ginger lick.

Sam lets him lick, doesn't move except to turn his hand when Dean nudges and whines, seeking out fresh patches of Sam's skin to explore. He licks at the dried blood on Sam's fingers and turns a questioning glance up at him, and Sam says quietly, without thinking or wondering if Dean can understand, "It isn't mine, it's theirs. I killed them. I killed them all for you."

Dean's expression doesn't change, still intense and wary, but he closes his mouth around one of Sam's knuckles and sucks up every last trace of blood.

  


*

  


Sometime later, after Dean has licked and scented and contented himself in Sam's skin, and Sam has argued Bobby down to a single cuff (because Dean still growls and bares his teeth when the older man approaches), Sam starts to tackle the mountain of problems that lays in front of him. Getting Dean free, getting him away alive and intact was the most important thing, and it had been difficult enough that Sam had allowed himself to push everything else aside and focus on the simple objectives of rescue and revenge. Now, though, Dean has calmed a little, and the concerns Sam has been ignoring all rush back at once. Sam sits on the floor of the panic room next to his brother, listing and prioritizing each issue in his mind as he runs an absent hand over Dean's filthy hair.

Well, that's as a good a place to start as any. Dean is filthy. He's not just dirty, or five-grave digs-later covered in grunge; he's disgusting. He's caked in dirt and sweat and other, less pleasant and more pungent things; the only clean spaces on his body are around his eyes and at his hairline, where fresh sweat washes some of the dirt away. His hair is matted and unshorn, longer than Sam can ever remember seeing it, and his stomach churns at the implications, tallying a month for every inch of hair past the first. It hangs nearly to Dean's shoulders.

Cleaning him up, while possibly not the _very_ highest priority, ranks pretty far up there, if for no other reason than the fact that Sam can't know if and how Dean might be hurt until he's clean. Sam gave his brother a quick once-over the first time they tranquilized him, in the truck as Bobby hauled ass out of the Campbell compound and back to the junkyard, but the truck's cabin was small and cramped with three full-grown men, and Sam hadn't been able to do much more than check for broken bones and anything gushing blood.

He found a newly broken finger that needed a splint and a few older rib fractures, already crookedly healed, but he knows there has to be more. Dean's nails are bloody and there are open sores on his hands and feet, ringing his neck where he was collared and chained. He's too filthy for Sam to be able to see much of the rest of his body, and he doesn't want to think about where else he might find scars and wounds, doesn't want to believe that it could possibly be worse than what he's already seen.

Dean was naked when they found him. It was hard to tell at first, crouched on the floor and covered in mud, his thick beard and wild eyes leaving him looking barely human. Sam wrapped him in a blanket in the car, tucked it carefully around him when he laid him on the cot. Dean struggled free as soon as he regained consciousness, and he's naked again, curled up at Sam's side, not quite touching, but close enough to share heat. It doesn't bother Sam on its own—he's seen Dean naked hundreds of times—but it bothers him because it would bother Dean. Should bother Dean, if only there were enough of his brother left in the man next to him to notice.

A bath, a medical exam, clothes. Sam looks down at Dean, gaze tracing the sharp line of his spine, and realizes he's neglected the most basic things: food and water. They left a jug of water next to him as he slept off the tranquilizer, of course, but as far as Sam can tell it hasn't been moved, and it's been 16 hours since they left the Campbell house and its smoldering corpses in their rearview mirror. Sam has no idea how long before that Dean last had something to drink. He's such a fucking idiot.

"Hey, Dean," he murmurs, softly, but Dean twitches at the sound and goes rigid beneath his hand. Sam pulls away slowly, palm flat and fingers together: _see, nothing up my sleeve._ Dean watches him warily, green eyes two burning spots of color in the mask of mud.

"Are you thirsty?" Sam clears his throat overly loudly, leaning out and reaching for the jug of water. It's heavy in his hand, confirming his suspicions. "I'm a little thirsty, so you must be. It gets kind of hot in here. We gotta talk Bobby into putting in some A/C."

He wants to bite down on his own tongue to stop his babbling, but he doesn't think he can get through this in silence. He needs noise, used to a constant stream of chatter when they're together, and Dean isn't going to provide it.

"Here, have some," he offers, holding the jug out, but Dean just shrinks away slightly and throws him a guarded look, halfway between curiosity and suspicion. "It's okay, it's just water. Look, I'll drink some first." He tips the jug back carefully in both hands, taking a large gulp, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "See? Plain water. Have some."

He sets the jug in front of Dean, not sure what to expect and so not expecting anything. He isn't disappointed; Dean dips his gaze to study the jug for a moment, then returns it to Sam, unblinking.

Sam licks his lips. Hesitates. "Do you want—" He picks up the jug again and makes a move to raise it to Dean's mouth, and flicker-quick Dean shrinks back, head lowered and that warning growl ticking in his throat. Frustrated, Sam groans. "Okay, I'll take that as a 'no', but Dean, you've gotta—"

He breaks off as his gaze falls on something across the room. Sam doesn't let himself think about it; as soon as the idea comes to him he's in motion, grabbing the bowl off the shelf and setting it on the floor halfway between the two of them. He pours until the bowl is nearly full, water close to the surface, then sets the jug down and walks backwards until his shoulders touch the curved metal wall.

It's utterly silent for a long few minutes; Sam doesn't speak, and Dean doesn't move. Just as he's about to give up hope, Dean abruptly drops his gaze and shuffles forward on his knees until he's right in front of the bowl. He flicks a glance up through the matted curtain of his hair, assessing Sam's reaction as he leans down and brings his mouth to the surface of the water. He sucks in a small sip, monitoring Sam's face. Sam tries to drag up a smile, jaw clenched against the sick spin in his gut, and Dean finally closes his eyes and drops his head to slurp up the water with noisy enthusiasm.

Sam can't move. He can't scare Dean off. He stands stock-still under the slow-moving fan, watching his big brother lap up water on his hands and knees, and there isn't enough blood in the world to avenge this.

  


*

  


Sam expects the bath to be a struggle, maybe even one that requires a tranquilizer, though he hates the thought of having to put Dean under again and losing the little trust he's gained. It's the first time he's even attempted to let Dean out of the panic room, and he has no idea how Dean will react. So when Bobby helps him lead Dean—still cuffed at one wrist, the chain wrapped around Sam's forearm—upstairs into the bathroom, he's definitely not prepared for Dean to try and launch himself head-first into the tub of steaming water he's drawn.

"Whoa, easy there," Sam cautions as Bobby retreats, muttering something about bath time and boundaries and mental scarring. Sam catches Dean's shoulder before he can get more than a leg over the edge of the tub, and Dean's so enthused he barely even flinches. "It's hot. Don't want you to burn yourself."

Dean's gaze flickers down at the water, then back up to Sam, and slowly, almost as if he's afraid it's the wrong thing to do, he nods. Sam's so stunned in the wake of that simple gesture that he lets Dean slip away without protest, but Dean moves more carefully this time, placing both feet in the water and standing there for a beat before folding down to sit, legs stretching out in front of him. He brings his arms down, letting them slip beneath the surface, and breathes in deeply before sliding forward, knees popping up into the air as he sinks down until the water laps at his chin.

In that moment, eyes closed in bliss and the shadow of a smile haunting his mouth, he looks so much like Sam's brother that he wants to cry.

"Good, huh?" Sam asks instead, and he isn't as surprised this time when Dean nods, though it still makes something in his chest clench. He kneels down next to the bathtub—slowly; the last 24 hours have been the greatest lesson in patience and transparency Sam's ever known—and props an elbow against the lip, resting his chin in his palm. "We'll let you soak for awhile before we get out the soap. I might have to buy a few more bars to get through all that dirt."

They end up draining and refilling the tub before they ever get to the soap, the murky swirl of water taking half of the grime on Dean's body with it. Sam's so encouraged by Dean's reaction to the bath that he unwraps the new cake of soap and places it directly in Dean's hand.

Dean stares at it. He stares at Sam. Then he drops the soap onto the floor and quickly draws his hand back beneath the water.

"Hey!" Sam squawks, indignant. "Dean—no, you've gotta wash. The water's not going to do it alone. C'mon, take it."

He tries to grab Dean's hand again, and Dean pulls away with a splash that sops Sam's shirt, then flinches hard, eyes squeezed shut and chin tucked down, every inch a dog expecting to be struck. Sam sucks in a short, sharp breath and just manages to control his reaction, leaving his hand in the water, clutching the bar of soap, instead of pulling away like he wants to, because he knows it will just freak Dean out more.

"Okay," he soothes. "Hey, sorry, it's okay. You didn't do anything wrong. You're okay. I'm not—I'm not going to hurt you, Dean. Dean." Sam swallows, tries to steady out the tremor in his voice. "No one's going to hurt you."

Dean's eyes stay closed, but the tension in his face eases a little, and Sam knows he's listening, even if he can't understand everything or doesn't believe it.

"Here's what we're going to do," Sam tells him, just like Dean is perfectly sane and _can_ understand every word, because right now he's got nothing else to go on. "You just stay right where you are, relaxed, and I'll—I'm gonna wash you. I'm sorry, I know you don't want to, but I really need to clean out those cuts and see if you're hurt anywhere else. So you just do that and I'll, um," Sam squeezes the bar of soap for courage, "I'll do this, and if anything hurts, you let me know, okay?" He waits a beat, just because; sighs. "Okay."

Dean tenses up again and cringes when Sam's hands move to his shoulders, but Sam keeps his touch steady and soothing, rubbing soap into Dean's skin in slow, even circles, and after a few minutes of gentle touches and mindless murmured reassurance he starts to relax again.

Sam does his arms first because it's the safest and easiest choice, working the soap in diligently, dipping them every once in awhile to see the progress he's made. He takes special care with Dean's hands, breathing out apologies every time Dean whimpers as he cleans a cut or presses a bruise. He files Dean's fingernails against the bar of soap until they're slivered white, then carefully scrapes them free with the edge of his own thumbnail. They're still ragged and raw, but they're clean.

Later, he'll find some nail clippers and trim them back, smooth down the jagged edges, and he'll long for Dean's sour expression, his outrage at being given a goddamn manicure. He'll ache for Dean to call him _Samantha_ and cast doubts on his sexuality. Right here, right now, he tries not to think about it, tries only to breathe.

Soaping his hands up until they're slick and foamy, Sam goes back to Dean's shoulders, working his way first down Dean's chest, from his collarbone to—as low on his stomach as he dares. He cups water between his palms and pours it over Dean's chest until the bubbles wash away, then lathers his hands again and eases his brother forward, repeating the process on his back. He tries not to touch the marks scattered across the pale, freckled skin here; the jagged lines of fingernails and the perfect rounds of white, the same size as the end of a cigarette. Dean seems calmer now, almost relaxed, and Sam lets him just enjoy the water for a few minutes while he searches the cupboards for a washcloth. He taps Dean's shoulder to open his eyes, gesturing at the washcloth and then touching Dean's face, and Dean closes his eyes again and nods in almost sleepy agreement.

He cleans Dean's face, gentle around his eyes and the swollen, chafed shape of his mouth; washes the abrasions around his neck with the utmost care, relieved when the dirt washes away to see that they aren't as bad as they first looked. He coaxes Dean into scooting down more until the water covers his hair, although he doesn't seem to like it, panicking once when a little water splashes over his face. Sam talks him down, meaningless soothing sounds and whispered promises, sinking his fingers into the thick tangle of Dean's hair to scritch at his scalp the way Dean's always liked. He tries his best to work through the snags and snarls, but even after the water's gone dark again with dirt the knots remain, and Sam has to concede. He'll have to shave Dean's head as well as his beard. That's definitely not a prospect he looks forward to.

He drains and refills the bath a second time, and now there's no more putting it off: he has to finish cleaning the rest of Dean's body. Everything…below the water. Suddenly, shaving his head doesn't seem quite so scary.

"Dean." Dean's head comes up with the sound of his name, and Sam swallows compulsively, feeling pinpointed and amplified. His hands are knotted around the washcloth, wringing it tighter and tighter until the wet fabric creaks.

"I need to…" He gestures at the water, but Dean just keeps watching him, brow faintly lined. Sam sighs. He changes tack, tapping Dean's shoulder and then rising from his crouch, gesturing for Dean to follow. "Stand up for me, will you? There we go, like that. I know it's cold, I'll make this fast. Trust me," he adds in a murmur.

He starts at Dean's feet. Kneeling by the side of the tub again, Sam reaches out and wraps one hand gently around Dean's ankle, skirting the bracelet of raw skin where he's been cuffed. Dean startles when Sam pulls, applying pressure to the tendon above his heel to get Dean to bend and lift his foot the way a ranch hand in Montana once taught him to do with horses. Dean wobbles a little, steadying himself against the slick shower wall, and watches with veiled curiosity as Sam applies the washcloth to the bottom of his foot, scrubbing at the tough, dirt-ground sole.

The bottoms of Dean's feet are nearly black, thick-soled and callused from endless months of exposure. The grime is like a second skin, like a sunburn, part of Dean's DNA. Sam works at it diligently, scuffing and scrubbing, back and wrists aching by the time he gives up.

He cleans the tops of Dean's feet, between his toes; his savaged ankles and his powerful calves. There are more cuts here, long and thin, raised red; looking close, Sam can see they crisscross an older network of similar scars. Lash marks. He washes behind Dean's knees, works his way up, and watches the ladder of scars climb Dean's thighs. Old and new, deep and shallow. Sam can't tell what made them, thinks it probably wasn't leather, they're too ragged and uneven. Maybe a switch. He's not going to be sick. He's not.

He looks at Dean's face as he reaches up, puts a hand high on Dean's thigh and the other on his ass. Dean's expression undergoes an astonishing transformation at the touch, shifting rapidly between emotions Sam can't identify. His lips pull back, teeth flashing white as a growl rips from his throat, and when he moves Sam barely has time to flinch; nothing to do but wait for the blow to come.

It doesn't. Dean's arms come up, but instead of swinging toward Sam he turns away, toward the wall, planting his forearms against the cool tile and burying his face against them. The growl cuts off in a high, choked whimper, and then there's silence. Dean's back is rigid and his legs are spread, and probably it's the shock, or some kind of self-defense, but Sam stares for a full 30 seconds before understanding washes over him.

"Oh Jesus Christ—" he cries out, tearing away from his brother, and manages to fumble the lid of the toilet up before he vomits.

  


*

  


He was on his knees when they found him. Not like that. Not a hand on him, not a soul near him, and that was almost worse. Locked up and stored away, living in a cool dark hum. The light blinded him when they kicked the door down; Sam watched his eyes narrow and tear. Naked in the dark, on his knees on the hard-packed dirt floor, and the screaming started soon, but for just that first moment it was perfectly still. Nothing but the thrum of the water heater and Dean's pale face: not surprised, not terrified. Resigned. Sam didn't think anything could be worse than the look on Dean's face in that moment.

Then he brought out a knife to cut Dean's bonds, and the screaming started, and he was _wrong_.

  


*

  


Sam gets Dean out of the bathtub. Somehow. It's all a blurred streak across his memory, wet skin and measured breaths and he's not gonna be sick again, not gonna look at Dean's face.

Dean's shivering as he dries him off, placid and animal-dumb, and Sam has to clench his fists in the towel to keep from hitting him. He wants to scream, wants to shake Dean until his bones rattle— _how could you let them, how could you think I'd want that._ How could he live through all of that and still be here but gone, locked up somewhere small and safe that Sam can't reach. How could he leave Sam with this shell: Dean's hollowed face and blank eyes, the frayed edges of his lizard brain pushed beyond fight or flight into something docile and wholly un-Dean. A sad puppet willing to lay down and not get up again.

Sam wraps the towel carefully around Dean's hips, nice and snug; tucks in the trailing corner and sits his brother down on the closed toilet lid. Stares down into Dean's face, those wide green eyes staring back, nothing behind them but a terrible, careful neutrality. It looks like an expression Dean's had a long time to practice.

"Okay, we're gonna go slow." Sam's voice is feather-soft even to his own ears, the tone he uses on frightened kids who've just watched demons rip apart their families. He gets a hand around the drawer under Bobby's sink and eases it open until Dean can peek inside, then lowers his hands, palms up, universal sign of peace. "Just look. I won't touch them, I swear. I won't move."

It's hard not flinch in sympathy when Dean glances into the open drawer and his whole body goes rigid. Everything's slightly jumbled together in the drawer, brushes and combs mixed up with the scissors and razor, but Dean's gaze goes straight to the metal, and that low, inhuman growl spirals out of his stomach, pulling his lips back and baring his teeth, and Sam can feel the phantom sting of each point in his jugular.

"Not gonna hurt you," he whispers, hissing in a short breath and cringing in spite of himself when Dean's head swings toward him with a snarl. "Never, Dean, never, won't let anyone hurt you again, I just gotta. I gotta cut your hair off, it's—" Sam bites off the words; there were things crawling in Dean's hair, tiny brown bodies floating in the grease-slick water. "I need to cut your hair and shave your beard so your cuts can heal and you won't itch. But it won't hurt. Swear to god, Dean, never hurt you, you know I couldn't."

It does about as much good as talking to a car that won't start, Sam knows—although he's heard Dean do that enough times in his life—but if he can't at least listen to his own voice pretending to be rational then he's going to lose his god damn mind. Dean's still immobile, still growling in low panting bursts, eyes huge on Sam's face and swallowed up with pupil. Fuck it. Sam reaches for the drawer, gets his hand wrapped around the scissors at about the same time Dean gets his teeth on Sam's throat.

"Dean—!" he yelps on a burst of panic, too stunned to pull away. He's glad of it a moment later when Dean's jaw tightens, teeth bracketing Sam's pulse, biting hard enough to bring a hot swell of tears to Sam's eyes.

"Dean, please," he grates out, throat convulsing with pain. "Hurts. Hurting me. S'me, it's—nngk—it's Sam, m'your brother, Dean, you gotta let me—aw _fuck_ —"

The pain's almost worse when Dean lets go, a quick heartbeat of relief and then all that blood stinging back into circulation. Sam tips his head to the side and finds the bite mark in the mirror, watching the blanched white mouthful of flesh flush a brilliant red. His stomach rolls, and he grabs at the counter with his free hand, willing himself not to be sick.

From the corner of his eye he sees Dean move in again; doesn't have the presence of mind or the strength of will to stop him. But Dean doesn't bite. He ducks into Sam's line of sight, deliberately catching Sam's eye, then slips in closer; shoulders his way under Sam's stiff arm, still braced against the counter, and pushes the whole length of his thin body against Sam's. His breath puffs warm against the throbbing bite mark, and when his lips brush against it Sam almost screams, expecting more pain, not the soft bare wisp of contact.

Dean's full, soft lips graze the livid tooth marks, so tender and careful it's almost its own kind of agony. His breath fans out warm and damp against Sam's neck, little huffs and sighs, and Sam could almost imagine he was whispering an apology, if Dean could say anything at all. Instead he opens his mouth and traces the tip of his tongue over the blood-red indentations, licking his _sorry_ into Sam's skin. He runs the flat of his tongue over the whole area in broad stripes, drawing out and then soothing the sting. By the time he draws back with a last, gentle lick Sam is breathing hard, wide-eyed and stunned for entirely different reasons.

It takes about five tries to get his throat cleared and his voice working. "It's okay," he says roughly, looking down into Dean's sad, contrite face and offering a tentative smile. "I forgive you."

Dean doesn't fight him again as Sam props him against the counter and shears off his matted hair, lathers up and carefully shaves his wild beard, pretending the whole time that his hands aren't shaking.

  


*

  


Dean's spent the previous two nights in the panic room, but that night they sleep in the spare room upstairs, sharing the narrow thrift-store bed for approximately the 500th time in their lives. Until Stanford, Sam had never spent more nights in any room than Bobby's guest bedroom.

They sleep curled around each other, tangled up and sharing warmth. Rather, Dean sleeps. Sam mostly watches him. He tells himself he's standing guard, but he isn't sure what he's guarding Dean from. The monsters have already come and gone and done their worst, and Sam wasn't there when it counted. Sam didn't protect Dean. He's not sure he even saved him.

At some point Sam must fall asleep, because he wakes up to someone saying his name.

"Sam," Dean breathes. His eyes are closed, his hands fisted in the sheets, and it takes Sam a few stunned minutes to realize his brother's still asleep. "Sam, Sammy. Where are you? I can't… oh god, Sammy. Please come back. I need you." He hiccups a pained breath. "Sam, come back. Sammy. SAMMY! SAMMY!"

He comes to in Sam's arms, shaking, pupils blown huge and black. Sam waits until he's sure Dean knows who he is, knows that he's safe, and then hugs him hard, clinging and whispering; reassurances, and promises, and _safe, Dean, came back for you. Always._

Dean doesn't speak the next day, or the one after that, or the whole week that follows. He won't eat from the table, sees no need for clothes, snarls whenever he's startled; but he lets Sam bathe him, lets him trim his nails and shave his jaw smooth, lets Sam tuck him into bed at night. He sleeps curled up around Sam, pressed chest to back, and wakes up most nights crying and gasping Sam's name.

He isn't okay. He might never be okay. But he's alive, and somewhere inside the confused chaos of his own mind Sam's brother is there—trapped, mute, but still there. Still _Dean_.

Sam waits.


End file.
